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WILLIAM  KEITH 
AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2014 


http://archive.org/details/williamkeithasprOOhaye 


What  is  this  vast,  stupendous  universe, 

With  all  its  timeless,  great  eternities, 

Its  countless  worlds  that  hang  so  far  in  space, 

But  the  expression  of  the  mind  divine? 

And  some  of  that  small  part  in  which  we  breathe 

Keith  sought  in  terms  of  color  to  make  plain 

To  us  who  else  might  rest  in  ignorance, 

Edward  Robeson  Taylor, 


WILLIAM  KEITH 

AS 

PROPHET  PAINTER 
By  EMILY  P.  B.  HAY 


PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  •  SANFRANCISCO 


Copyright,  1916 
By  PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
SAN  FRANCISCO 


TO  OTHER  PUPILS 
OF  THE  OLD  STUDIO,  THIS 
MONOGRAPH  IS  CORDIALLY 
ADDRESSED 


WILLIAM  KEITH 
AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 


WILLIAM  KEITH  as 
PROPHET  PAINTER 


i. 

WILLIAM  KEITH  was  born  in  Old 
Meldrum,  Aberdeenshire,  Scotland, 
1839.  This  is  the  conventional  opening 
of  a  biography  but  consider  its  import. 
In  applying  commonplace  phrases  to  a 
genius  we  disclose  in  our  words  a  secret 
motive — a  modest  whispering  in  our  con- 
sciousness that,  in  his  ultimate  person- 
ality, he  is  yet  a  man  like  unto  ourselves ; 
merely  going  before  in  the  wilderness  of 
our  own  emotions  proclaiming,  There  is 
a  Perfect  Beauty  yet  to  come.  Such  is 
the  vocation  of  the  Prophet  in  Art,  in 
Religion  or  in  any  other  sphere  desig- 
nated by  such  partial  names  as  we 
utilize  in  this  our  temporal  condition. 
Such  was  the  office  of  William  Keith  in 
that  fragmentary  activity  of  life  which 
we  please  to  style :  Painting. 

We  know  that  in  the  history  of  Re- 
ligion two  streams  are  apparent,  distinct 
though  often  confluent;  hieratic  and 
prophetic.  The  prophetic  is  a  torrent 
nearly  pure  from  its  source,  constantly 
pouring  into  the  stream  of  ecclesiasticism 
to  illumine  its  sluggish  waters  which 

[3] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

threaten  to  stagnate  in  the  dead  letter 
of  the  law.  We  know,  too,  that  these 
fresh  impulses  of  the  individual  soul 
offend  the  official  keepers  of  the  flood- 
gates of  religious  truth  who  fear  intuition 
as  a  dangerous  substitute  for  measured 
anise  and  cummin  of  priestly  legislation. 
Analogous  in  attitude  stand  the  High 
Priests  of  Technique  who  condemn  the 
subordination  of  brushwork  and  pig- 
ment to  the  unfettered  impulses  of  poetry 
and  religion.  Hence,  if  you  find  all- 
sufficiency  of  peace  and  happiness  in  the 
Oak  Forests  and  Harvest  Fields  of  Will- 
iam Keith,  you  may  be  sentenced  in  the 
High  Courts  of  Authorized  Criticism 
with  the  epithet — "Provincial." 

Yet  the  Ninth  Symphony  was  not 
written  while  Beethoven  was  globe- 
trotting, and  in  a  certain  very  small 
province  — Judea — the  bounds  of  uni- 
versal humanity  were  forever  eliminated. 

In  his  relation  to  the  academical  laws 
of  technique,  Keith  was  as  one,  who, 
discerning  the  existence  of  a  higher  law, 
pulls  out  his  ox  on  the  Sabbath  Day. 
Was  not  the  Sabbath  made  for  man 
rather  than  man  for  the  Sabbath?  Was 
not  the  brush  created  for  Keith  rather 
than  Keith  automaton  of  the  paint  brush? 

Unlike  mere  representations  of  Nature 
as  produced  by  many  of  the  Hierarchy, 
he  revealed  to  his  followers  the  increate 

[4 ) 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

glory  of  the  landscape  which  passed  into 
their  souls  as  an  abiding  delight:  to  be 
fanned  into  ecstasy  by  the  sight  of  every 
living  tree,  rock  or  rivulet  "composing" 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of 
California.  Not  alone  in  California;  wher- 
ever splendid  masses  of  gray  and  white 
clouds  mount  in  cerulean  skies  or  the 
departing  sun  dissolves  in  rose  and  gold. 

Since  every  prophet  is  swayed  by 
racial  influences,  we  may  discern  in  the 
names  of  "Keith"  and  "Aberdeen"  in- 
signia of  his  temperament.  Follow  the 
fortunes  of  Bruce  and  Wallace  to  be  in 
sympathy  with  my  characterization;  for 
all  the  courage,  honesty  and  resolute 
independence  of  his  Scottish  ancestors 
•who  fought  with  those  chieftains  re- 
peated themselves  in  the  personality  of 
Keith.  Indeed,  this  exile  of  Highland 
strain,  with  his  sturdy  form  and  dark- 
blue  eye,  was  exceedingly  proud  of  his 
brawn,  doubting  at  times  but  that  Fate 
had  played  a  strange  prank  to  thrust 
into  his  hands  the  pliant  paint  brush  in- 
stead of  a  doughty  claymore.  This  really 
being  no  more  a  whim  of  Fate  than  are 
coincidents  the  shuttlecocks  of  Chance, 
over-ruling  Destiny  ordained  that  within 
the  span  of  life  allotted  Keith,  1839-1911, 
he  should  have  within  his  grasp  such  stuff 
as  reacting  on  his  soul  would  mold  and 
cast  it  forth  for  use  on  the  Plane  Beyond, 

15] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

The  leonine  strength  in  which  he  prided 
must  be  sublimated  to  spiritual  activity; 
his  canvases  must  disappoint  many  who 
look  for  a  culminating  masterpiece  at  his 
hands.  But  the  Lord  was  perfecting  that 
which  concerned  him — not  primarily  the 
temporary  walls  of  an  Art  Exhibition. 
His  work  must  reflect  the  progress  of  his 
soul.  Hence,  in  the  twilight  of  his  earthly 
life  are  we  surprised  to  find  his  " Inspira- 
tion' 9  and  "Gethsemane"? 

Celtic — which  is  to  say  impulsive  and 
imaginative — rooted  in  a  soil  dominated 
by  such  monarchs  of  the  Highlands  as 
Ben  Nevis  and  Ben  Macdhui,  his  youth 
was  bent  by  the  hand  of  a  not-too-tender 
stepmother  allied  to  the  yet  sterner  hand 
of  Presbyterianism.  He  was  obliged  to 
attend  the  Kirk  five  times  of  a  Sabbath. 
This  is  not  provocative  of  high  spirits  in 
small  boys — though  I  may  seem  to  con- 
tradict myself  a  few  sentences  later — 
and  the  periodical  return  of  a  Sabbath 
depression  attended  Mr.  Keith  through- 
out his  successive  years,  enveloping  fam- 
ily, friends  and  pet  dogs  alike.  With  his 
Sunday  clothes  he  enveloped  himself  in 
an  atmosphere  repelling  all  suggestions 
of,  11  Checkers?' 9  and  I  really  think  that 
the  sympathetic  ears  of  "Hegel"  and 
"Jumbo"  drooped  just  a  bit  nearer  the 
ground  on  Sunday  than  they  drooped  on 
any  other  of  the  six  secular  days  of  the 

[6] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

week.  He  acknowledged  these  periodical 
disturbances  of  his  system;  ingenuously 
admitting  that,  as  a  boy,  he  had  made 
desperate  revolts  against  their  obsession; 
but  invariable  suppression  of  these  early 
revolts  left,  in  his  naturally  heroic  nature, 
a  lasting  impression  of  ignominious  defeat. 
In  his  own  words,  here  is  a  description  of 
Keith's  Rebellion. 

"You  know  they  used  to  make  me  go 
to  church  five  times  a  day  on  Sunday. 
Well — the  seats  were  so  high  that  my 
feet  couldn't  touch  the  ground.  The 
consequence  was,  first  my  feet  and  then 
the  rest  of  me  went  to  sleep  during  the 
preaching.  My  mother  would  lay  me 
down  under  the  seat — which  generally 
woke  me  up.  Then  I  would  sit  up  and, 
realizing  my  captivity,  proceed  to  re- 
venge myself  against  Fate.  I  would 
creep  along  very  quietly  on  all  fours  the 
whole  length  of  the  pew,  then  suddenly 
poke  my  head  out  from  my  hiding  place. 
It  never  failed  to  produce  the  result  which 
I  was  hoping  for:  everybody  jumped  or 
squealed!  There  was  another  result, 
though,  that  followed:  my  mother! — 
with  a  rush  of  suppressed  dialect:  "  You, 
Wulliel  when  I  get  ye  hameT 

I  think  that  this  must  have  been  the 
germination  of  a  lingering  uncertainty 
as  to  what  would  be  his  deserts  in  the 
After  Life.    He  always  seemed  to  be 

[7] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

haunted  by  a  whispering  conscience. 
"  You,  Wullie — when  I  get  ye  hameT 

The  current  of  his  life  suggests  a  moun- 
tain torrent  of  his  own  Highlands:  the 
Findhorn,  itself,  channelling  through  wild 
glen  and  forest,  steep  cliff,  gnarled  birch, 
moss,  broom  and  eglantine:  finally,  in- 
evitably drawn  to  the  Sea  of  Divine 
Realization.  We  must  look  not  only 
upon  the  brilliant  waters  as  they  glance 
in  the  sunlight,  but  we  must  compre- 
hend the  dark  pools  of  sombre  thought 
shadowed  by  opposing,  overhanging  rocks 
of  circumstance:  the  angry  swirl  about 
lesser  obstacles  and  all  the  babbling 
foolishness  engendered  by  trifling  pebbles 
of  daily  life.  We  must  see  him — to 
quote  his  own  oft-repeated  words — as 
"A  Whole/; 

u Don't  pitter-patter  over  one  little 
detail  in  the  landscape !"  he  would  im- 
plore us:  u Can't  you  see  that  everything 
belongs  together?  Can't  you  see  things  as 
a  whole?" 

Dear  Master;  Gone  to  a  perception  of 
the  Whole  Design,  he  now  sees  this 
earthly  life  as  but  a  fragment,  a  sketch 
for  immortality's  reference;  and  mindful 
of  the  wider  meaning  which  he  uncon- 
sciously urged,  I  will  try  to  follow  his 
instructions  in  the  handling  of  details 
as  they  incorporated  with  the  full  current 
of  his  life. 

[8] 


II. 

At  twelve  years  of  age,  in  company 
with  his  mother,  Mr.  Keith  first  set  foot 
in  America:  New  York.  Here,  uncon- 
genial employment  in  a  law  office  and  the 
more  attractive  occupation  of  wood-en- 
graver secured  him  means  of  support. 
There  was  great  demand  at  the  time  for 
wood-engraving  in  the  illustration  of 
books  and  magazines,  and  through  em- 
ployment by  such  firms  as  that  of  Harpers 
he  was  floated  onward  in  his  career  to  the 
yet  indefinite  goal  of  his  emotional  de- 
sires. The  very  particularity  of  detail 
demanded  by  engraving,  served  later  to 
free  his  hand  to  essential  strokes  in  de- 
lineating objective  forms  in  the  landscape. 
He  would  return  to  bold  action  which  was 
his  by  nature  only  after  he  had  served 
artistic  vassalage  in  the  exigencies  of 
microscopic  observance. 

When  the  invention  of  half-tone  print- 
ing and  newer  methods  of  photography 
displaced  the  more  expensive  process  of 
hand-engraving,  Mr.  Keith,  with  others  of 
like  profession,  was  thrown  out  of  employ- 
ment. At  this  point,  1859,  he  came  to 
California,  where  he  awoke  fully  to  the 
growing  conviction  that  he  was  mysteri- 
ously attuned  to  the  moods  of  Nature, 
and  in  an  attitude  of  love  and  reverence 
sketched  in  water  colors  the  various 

[9] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

phases  of  these  communications.  The 
sale  of  such  attempts — crude  or  no — 
helped  to  swell  the  sum  which  he  began 
to  accumulate  with  a  view  to  studying 
abroad. 

In  1869  he  entered  the  Diisseldorf 
Academy.  Here,  the  Teutonic  influences 
of  the  school  created  pictures  in  the  tight, 
orderly  system  of  military  organization, 
— strictly  in  accordance  with  academi- 
cal tradition  which  " finished' '  pictures 
with  the  same  precision  that  polishes 
a  buckle  for  military  inspection.  This 
method  of  procedure  easily  complemented 
the  discipline  of  his  former  work  through 
the  lens  of  a  wood-engraver,  and  I  shall 
never  forget  my  surprise  when  a  few  years 
ago  I  chanced  upon  a  full-fledged  illus- 
tration of  this  same  geniture.  I  was 
calling  on  a  friend  and  while  waiting  in 
the  parlor  glanced  up  at  the  pictures  on 
the  wall.  The  owners  of  the  house  were 
German  and  I  thought  that  one  of  the 
pictures  which  I  contemplated  must  cer- 
tainly be  of  German  workmanship. 
Everything  about  it  was  so  painfully 
exact:  from  definite  trees  with  their  pre- 
cise little  leaves  to  the  neat  little  road 
travelled  by  a  punctual  little  horse  draw- 
ing a  tidy  little  wagon.  Who  was  the 
artist?  I  looked  in  the  corner  of  the 
painting  to  read  William  Keith.  I  think 
that  I  then  first  realized  that  great  men 

[10] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

as  well  as  small  men  fall  under  the  same 
law  of  evolution. 

At  that  period  of  his  work  I  was  not 
in  objective  existence  and  when  he  under- 
took to  initiate  my  humble  self  into  the 
expression  of  nature  on  canvas,  he  had 
once  again  thrown  off  the  trammels  of 
academical  restraint  and  was  roaming  the 
free  Highlands  of  his  native  genius:  vast, 
uncompromising  forcefulness.  To  this, 
the  scenery  of  California  is  nobly  confed- 
erate, and  so  imbued  were  we  of  the  Old 
Studio  with  this  spirit  of  our  Chieftain, 
that  when  he  appealed  to  us  to  "Work 
Largely !"  we  proved  our  allegiance  to  his 
slogan  by  wielding  brushes  of  enormous 
size  and  squeezing  out  paint  unlimited  in 
quantity. 

Several  later  European  trips  influenced 
Keith's  work  to  the  extent  that  he  has 
been  "classed* 9  with  the  Fontainebleau- 
Barbizon  school:  with  Corot,  Dupres, 
Rousseau  and  others. 

Arboreous  fretwork  of  misty  gray  may 
suggest  the  Pay  sage  of  Jean  Corot;  love 
of  the  wild,  the  rugged  and  the  powerful 
was  characteristic  of  Theodore  Rousseau ; 
but  irrespective  of  Corot,  a  physical  dg^ 
feet  of  short-sightedness,  uniting  The 
innate  rhythm  of  his  being,  often  resulted 
in  a  symphonic  impression  of  gauzy  earth, 
tree  and  sky.  Love  of  the  wild,  rugged 
and  powerful,  was  Keith's  birthright  in 

[in 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

the  Highlands — not  the  reflected  passion 
which  those  aspects  of  nature  kindled  in 
the  heart  of  Theodore  Rousseau.  Like 
Rousseau,  he  sketched  directly  from 
nature  long  before  he  was  aware  of  a  con- 
temporaneous movement  designated  as 
the  Revolt  from  Classicism. 

Though,  like  many  of  the  artists  of 
Fontainebleau-Barbizon,  he  eventually 
painted  many  of  his  scenes  in  the  studio 
and  not  directly  from  nature,  innumer- 
able were  the  solitary  walks  in  which  he 
jotted  on  the  pages  of  his  inevitable  note 
book  a  peculiar  short-hand  record  of  the 
component  tones  which  he  discerned  in 
the  afternoon  aspect  of  a  mountain  or 
gathering  storm.  These  were  to  him 
what  the  notes  of  a  piano  are  to  the 
musician,  whose  long  familiarity  with 
lines,  dots  and  spaces  permits  him  at 
length  to  close  his  eye  to  the  key-board 
and  vest  memory  in  dreamy  rhythm  or 
solemn  chord. 

Keith  was  as  responsive  to  the  vibra- 
tions of  music  as  to  those  of  color,  having 
a  tenor  voice  which  often  delighted  us 
with  "Scots  wha  hae,"  the  "Ingleside," 
and  so  forth.  His  superlative  power  of 
mimicry  presents,  apart  from  its  place  in 
the  babbling  foolishness  of  his  life's  cur- 
rent, a  serious  side  to  its  psychology: 
ability  to  enter  the  very  emotional  sub- 
stance of  any  personal  quality.  Had  he 
[12] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

chosen  any  other  career  he  would  have 
made  a  success  of  it;  not  merely  by  dint 
of  concentration  and  perseverance,  but 
through  power  to  direct  his  irrepressible 
emotion  along  any  selected  channel. 

Impersonating  Paderewski  for  our 
hilarity,  he  temporarily  identified  himself 
with  that  genius.  A  Paderewski — to  be 
sure — meriting  dismemberment  by  Red- 
fern  Mason:  nevertheless,  a  Paderewski. 
Who  that  has  heard  his  improvised 
"Storm  in  the  Alps' '  will  ever  forget  the 
sensation?  Thrusting  his  hands  through 
his  leonine  locks,  he  would  sound  a  few 
disconnected  notes,  follow  them  with 
brief  and  prolonged  pauses,  then,  glancing 
over  his  shoulder  to  enjoy  the  tension  of 
our  nerves,  suddenly  plunge  into  phenom- 
ena of  strange  harmonies  and  agonizing 
discords  surely  illustrative  of  some  cata- 
clysm in  nature. 

As  a  linguist  he  might  have  persuaded 
a  polar  bear  that  he  understood  its  jargon 
of  the  ice-fields.  With  a  few  words  of 
many  languages  at  his  command,  he 
mystified  Frenchman,  German  and  Italian 
alike,  his  apparent  fluency  was  so  be- 
wildering. In  several  artfully  simple 
sentences  he  would  address  a  certain  old 
French  lady  of  his  acquaintance,  and 
while  she  was  straining  to  grasp  the 
elusive  meaning  of  his  insinuating  speech, 
he  would  glide  into  such  volubility  that 
[13] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

the  old  lady  doubted  the  veracity  of  her 
own  hearing  rather  than  the  doggerel 
which  slipped  from  the  tongue  of  William 
Keith.  We  have  listened  to  him  in  the 
Old  Studio,  maintain  a  prolonged  con- 
versation with  an  Italian  lemon  vender, 
leaving  the  fellow,  at  the  close  of  it,  to 
wonder  if  he  had  not  been  interviewed  in 
some  archaic  dialect  of  Tuscany.  All  the 
while  Keith  was  simply  reiterating:  la 
luna — niente — Raf  aelo . 

As  a  tragedian  he  might  have  electrified 
a  public  as  he  succeeded  in  electrifying 
family  and  friends  whom  he  pressed  into 
service  for  impromptu  performances.  No 
one  enjoyed  this  nonsense  more  than  one 
of  his  greatest  friends,  Professor  Joseph 
Le  Conte,  who,  like  Mr.  Keith,  possessed 
the  delightful  simplicity  of  a  child-like 
nature.  From  him  I  learned  that,  with 
the  truly  great  one  may  be  very  much 
more  at  one's  ease  than  in  the  company 
of  a  man  nearer  one's  own  intellectual 
level — just  above  or  just  below.  Not 
only  did  he  respect  your  observations, 
but  he  actually  assayed  them  for  what 
metal  of  true  value  therein  might  be 
contained. 

It  was  a  source  of  much  amusement  to 
both  Mr.  Keith  and  Professor  "Joe"  that 
they  surprised  each  other  at  the  circus. 
It  was  Ringling  Brothers,  I  think,  who 
made  a  short  stay  in  Berkeley,  luring 
[14] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER. 

artist  and  professor  from  studio  and  col- 
lege. Under  cover  of  darkness,  with 
scarcely  a  hint  to  their  families,  all  un- 
known to  each  other,  Mr.  Keith  and 
Professor  "Joe"  slipped  away  to  enjoy 
the  clowns  and  the  elephants.  Great  was 
their  astonishment  when  after  an  interval 
of  thrilling  absorption  each  discovered  the 
close  proximity  of  the  other.  "  You 
here!"  cried  Keith,  accusatory,  "I  never 
would  have  believed  it." 

"You  here!"  ejaculated  Professor  "Joe." 
"You're  the  last  person  that  I  would  have 
dreamed  of  seeing!"  They  doubly  en- 
joyed the  rest  of  the  performance  to- 
gether. 

This  love  of  play — be  it  in  Keith,  him- 
self, or  in  others — rendered  life  in  the 
Old  Studio  where  some  of  us  had  the 
privilege  of  constantly  working  and  ob- 
serving him,  a  joyous  experience  of 
piquant  alertness.  I  shall  describe  one 
such  day  as  typical  of  the  many. 


[15] 


III. 

The  Old  Studio,  formerly  a  photo- 
grapher's gallery,  was  down  on  Mont- 
gomery Street  at  the  very  heart  of  Old 
San  Francisco.  One  mounted  two  long 
flights  of  stairs,  passed  through  two  long 
gloomy  halls  until  they  branched  into 
four  dingy  rooms  lighted  by  skylights 
black  with  the  soot  of  many  chimneys. 
The  Master  yet  defied  all  attempts  to 
train  him  into  a  social  lion,  in  his  new  and 
luxurious  lair  decorated  with  Indian  bas- 
kets: conceding  only  two  old  swords 
crossed  high  on  the  wall  and  one  little 
strip  of  faded  blue  damask.  What  cared 
we  for  such  paltry  accessories  when,  at  a 
touch  of  the  master's  brush,  splendid 
crags  reared  their  snowy  heads  into  blue 
skies — meadows  washed  with  the  rains  of 
early  Spring  burst  into  efflorescence  about 
the  hoofs  of  wandering  cattle?  All — at 
the  touch  of  a  few  hairs  of  camel  or  sable 
— even  pigs'  bristles!  They  say  that  this 
is  a  commercial  age.  Do  not  we  who 
incline  to  the  call  of  the  Beautiful  discern 
this  to  be  only  a  half  truth?  Have  we 
not  an  inkling  of  other  laws  at  work 
inflecting  the  meanest  object  to  the  path 
of  Perfect  Beauty?  Witness  this  prin- 
ciple at  work  in  the  interest  of  commerce, 
itself — in  the  Keen  Kutter  Department 
of  the  Exposition.  Behold  that  most 
[16] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

useful  but  prosaic  article,  a  steel  chain, 
glistening  as  the  spray  of  a  fountain! — 
That  most  matter-of-fact  article,  a  meat 
cleaver — the  sail  of  a  picturesque  wind- 
mill! Marvel  not,  then,  that  swine — 
incidentally  utilized  for  the  deposition  of 
maniacs — may  yield  not  only  a  few 
bristles  for  masterpieces  of  painting,  but 
serve  the  very  Master  of  Masters  for 
expounding  the  Perfect  Law  of  Harmony! 

To  return  to  the  Studio.  The  first  little 
room  on  the  left  of  the  second  hall  was 
used  for  the  overflow  of  pupils  on  class 
days;  also  for  the  brewing  of  tea  and 
general  high  spirits.  The  official  class 
room  connected  with  Mr.  Keith's  special 
work  room  by  folding  doors  which  were 
never  folded.  The  fourth  and  smallest 
room  was  a  black  pocket  garnished  with 
an  ash  can  and  a  pile  of  rubbish,  to  be- 
come historic  as  the  refuge  of  a  burglar. 
He  repudiated  such  calling  to  the  Detec- 
tive Agency  occupying  the  front  rooms  of 
our  same  hall,  asserting  that  he  merely 
wished  to  sleep  off  the  effects  of  liquor 
before  indulging  his  more  expensive  taste 
— the  contemplation  of  Mr.  Keith's  land- 
scapes. It  had  not  occurred  to  us  as  an 
attractive  spot  for  siestas,  but  so  varied 
were  the  characters  which  frequented  the 
Old  Studio  that  only  a  burglar  was 
needed  to  make  the  rendezvous  thoroughly 
cosmopolitan. 

[17] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

"Nice  tree! — if  I  do  say  it  myself !" 
Bertha  submerges  her  brush  in  chrome 
green  No.  1  and  dabs  it  on  her  canvas. 
Complacency  vanishes,  however,  as  the 
Master  approaches  and  her  voice  grows 
quite  apologetic.  "I  would  have  made 
this  shadow  a  little  darker,"  she  reassures 
him,  "but  I  dabbed  my  brush  into  yellow 
ochre  instead  of  burnt  sienna.' ' 

"Go  to  nature!"  rejoins  Keith  abruptly; 
whereon  she  bursts  into  tears.  They  are 
transient,  however,  and  Keith,  knowing 
it,  sweeps  her  rootless  tree  into  oblivion 
only  to  replace  it  with  a  hoary  monarch 
of  countless  ages. 

"All  very  well  to  copy  some,"  he  con- 
tinues, "but  this  pittery  puttering  won't 
do,  Bertha!  You've  simply  got  to  go  to 
Nature.  You've  got  to  get  in  and  gouge!" 

Bertha  promises  to  gouge.  "Your  sky 
isn't  bad!"  he  observes,  amelioratingly, 
"but  your  clouds  are  boiled  potatoes. 
Smash  in  your  clouds — this  way!  Use  a 
big  brush — work  largely!  Keep  every- 
thing together!   See  things  as  a  whole!" 

As  he  approaches  my  easel  I  feel  that  I 
have  nothing  to  say  why  sentence  of 
deiath  should  not  be  pronounced  upon  me 
for  imposing  on  the  helpless  cattle  of  my 
landscape  unpalatable  soapiness  of  graz- 
ing land. 

"What  is  that?"  Keith  has  pounced 
into  the  middle  of  my  canvas. 

[18] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

"A  house — "  I  expound,  "blue  smoke 
curling  up — " 

"Where  do  you  see  a  house  in  my 
picture?' ' 

"There, — the  smoke — " 

"Bother  the  smoke!  Those  are  horns — 
not  chimneys !" 

My  house  is  swept  to  the  land  of 
Bertha's  tree  to  be  followed  thence  by 
mountain,  rill  and  meadow  perpetrated 
by  other  members  of  the  class.  Where 
lies  that  lost  Atlantis  of  our  early  en- 
deavors? Out  of  the  submerging  seas  of 
consciousness  rise  the  peaks  of  Cubist  and 
Futurist.  Somewhere  in  their  locality 
may  be  found  the  lost  continent  of  our 
first  creation. 

A  light,  accustomed  step  now  sounds 
in  the  hall  and  Reverend  Joseph  Worces- 
ter, the  Swedenborgian  clergyman,  ap- 
pears, punctual  to  his  usual  hour.  He 
will  exert  a  powerful  influence  over  the 
lives  of  some  of  us,  for  to  our  restless 
spirits  will  he  prove  an  apostle  of  peace; 
what  has  he  found  and  where  has  he 
found  it — that  Something  which  invests 
him  with  tranquility?  We,  too,  will  make 
search  for  that  mysterious  Something. 

We  follow  him  to  forest-depths  of  intro- 
spection, there  to  discover  him  seated  at 
the  brim  of  a  fountain  which  he  interprets 
to  us  as  the  Fountain  of  Life.  It  is 
indeed,  a  well-spring  of  influences,  in- 

[19] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

eluding  the  Doctrine  of  Correspondences 
which  reveal  the  natural  world  as  but  a 
shadow  of  the  real  or  spiritual  world. 
Later,  finding  the  waters  constrained  by 
too  elaborate  usage  of  sculptured  detail, 
viz.,  the  Arcana  Coelestia,  we  conclude 
that  there  must  be  yet  other  fountains 
where  the  waters  well  up  more  freely.  So 
we  continue  search  in  the  vast  forest  of 
religious  experience,  along  little  by-paths 
in  tangled  wildwood  of  ever-deepening 
consciousness,  discovering  not  only  more 
beautiful  fountains,  but  that  each  and  all 
are  fed  by  one  yet  profounder  Source. 

Silently— for  an  hour,  perhaps,  Mr. 
Worcester  sits  lost  in  contemplation  of  a 
landscape  forming  on  the  Master's  easel. 
Such  prolonged  absorption  somewhat 
amuses  Mr.  Keith,  for  he,  himself,  has 
not  yet  sounded  the  depths  of  his  own 
thoughts  and  emotions  as  read  into  forest 
and  meadow  by  his  devoted  friend,  the 
clergyman.  No,  the  artist  does  not  yet 
realize  that  this  is  the  beginning  of  self- 
realization  to  culminate  in  "Gethsemane." 

The  sound  of  Mr.  Worcester's  footsteps 
dies  away  giving  place  to  the  limp  of 
Judge  Hager — leading  light  in  judicial 
circles.  He  is  coming  by  appointment  to 
have  his  portrait  painted.  Mr.  Keith  is 
not  usually  happy  in  his  portraits  of 
women,  although  some  of  his  European 
studies  of  peasants  are  superlatively 
[20] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

characterized:  in  those  of  many  of  his 
male  subjects,  however,  he  is  extremely 
successful.  Now,  despite  the  fact  that  he 
is  progressing  satisfactorily  with  the 
Judge's  portrait,  he  declares  that  he  has 
half  a  mind  to  give  up  portrait  painting 
altogether.  "Who  sees  a  person  just  as 
someone  else  sees  him?"  he  groans.  UA 
wife  comes  in,  one  day,  and  says  I've 
painted  her  husband's  face  too  thin.  The 
daughter  comes  in  the  next  day  and  says 
IVe  painted  her  father's  face  too  fat! 
Nobody  is  satisfied!" 

Worst  of  all  troubles  just  now,  is  the 
Judge's  cravat.  The  Judge  desires  im- 
mortality for  his  cravat  which,  strictly  up- 
to-date,  is  polka-dotted.  Keith  objects 
to  speckling  the  cravat,  be  it  unde- 
niably fashionable.  The  specks  are  in- 
artistic; regardless  of  the  Judge's  appeal 
he  engulfs  the  dots  in  ivory  black.  Of 
course  the  judge  has  the  legal  right  of  the 
case.  The  dots  are  his  own — are  they 
not?  The  dots  are  fashionable — are  they 
not?  They  will  be  paid  for  generously. 
But  Keith  tips  over  the  scales  of  Justice, 
holding  the  dots  confiscate.  So  the  war- 
fare of  soul  and  intellect  proceeds  within 
the  limited  area  of  a  speckled  cravat. 

Speaking  of  the  Judge  recalls  Hadjji, 
who  makes  her  debut  on  our  little  stage 
while  the  Judge  is  "sitting." 

All  is  quiet  but  for  the  swishing  of 
[21] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

brushes  and  fragmentary  argument  in 
Mr.  Keith's  work-room.  All  at  once  a 
slap-slap  of  heavy  footsteps  in  the  hall, 
followed  by  terrific  pounding  on  the 
closed  door  of  the  class  room  startle  the 
inmates.  All  cry:  "Come  in!"  There  is 
merely  the  repetition  of  the  pounding; 
whereon  someone  hurries  to  the  door  and 
opens  it  to  admit  a  little  old  woman  with 
gray  curls  dancing  about  her  face,  which 
is  half  hidden  under  a  flat  black  straw  hat 
tied  under  her  chin  with  red  ribbons; 
about  her  shoulders  is  folded  a  green-and- 
blue  shawl,  while  in  her  hands  she  grasps 
the  cane — or  rather — club  with  which  she 
has  solicited  entrance. 

"I  want  Mr.  Keith !"  she  announces. 

"He  is  very  busy — "  Anna  begins  to 
explain. 

"I— want— Mr.  Keith." 

"He  is  very  busy!" 

"I  came  to  see  Mr.  Keith!"  pounding 
on  the  floor  with  her  club.  "I  crossed  the 
whole  continent  to  see  him!  He  did 
that!19  levelling  her  club  at  an  oak  tree. 
"My  idea  of  a  great  man!" 

The  increasing  volume  of  voice  brings 
the  Great  Man,  himself,  to  the  dividing- 
line.  "I  am  Mr.  Keith,"  he  announces  with 
dignity;    "what  is  it  you  wish,  Madam?" 

"  You!    Come  out  where  I  can  look  at 
you — Lion!    H'm!    And  you  look  like  a 
lion!   God  knows  you  paint  like  one!" 
[22] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER. 

Savage  indeed  must  be  the  breast  not 
to  be  soothed  by  such  music!  The  lion 
lowers  his  palette,  balances  irresolutely 
on  one  foot.  But  the  Judge  is  to  be 
reckoned  with.  Descending  from  the 
podium,  advancing  in  the  full  majesty  of 
his  judicial  prerogatives, 

"Madam — "  he  begins,  impressively. 

"Who  are  you?"  sniffs  Hadjji. 

"Madam — you  must  excuse  Mr.  Keith; 
he  is  painting  my  portrait." 

"  Your  portrait !  Well!  I  hope  he  will 
paint  your  nose  turned  up — this  way! 
Your  mouth  screwed  up — this  way!  Your 
eyes  bulging — this  way!"  Suiting  the 
action  to  the  word,  Hadjji  demonstrates 
her  hopes  for  the  ultimate  representation 
of  Judge  Hager.  He  retreats  before  such 
warmth  of  sentiment  leaving  Keith  to 
face  the  situation  alone.  With  infinite 
tact  born  of  a  situation  unprecedented — 
an  irate  little  old  woman  levelling  her 
club  at  the  Supreme  Court,  itself — the 
Great  Man  devotes  several  minutes  to 
facing  about  from  the  wall  some  of  his 
finest  canvases.  We  come  to  his  rescue, 
at  this  juncture,  inveigling  her  into  the 
work-room  across  the  hall. 

"Won't  you  have  a  cup  of  tea?"  I 
shout  into  her  ear.  She  only  pauses  before 
an  easel  whereon  rests  a  large  photo- 
graphic reproduction  of  the  head  of 
Aesop. 

[23] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

" Mormons !"  she  ejaculates,  regarding 
the  two  easels  where  two  of  us  are  engaged 
in  copying  the  same  study.  "After  the 
same  man,  eh?  Aesop!  Oh,  yes — dead! 
So  much  the  better!  Dead  men  are  better 
than  live  ones.  But  stop  wasting  breath 
on  me!  Can't  you  see  I'm  stone  deaf? 
Take  this — if  you  will  keep  on  talking!' ' 
She  unwinds  from  the  folds  of  her  shawl 
the  coils  of  a  drop-light  which  she  holds 
to  her  ear,  and  I,  summoning  all  the 
breath  in  my  body  for  the  purpose,  shout 
into  it  "Sugar?" 

"My  God!"  The  tube  falls  from  her 
hands.  "Don't  you  know  that  is  an 
earthquake? — Whisper — if  you  have  any 
mercy!  11  Sugar?  Yes — I'll  take  some 
sugar.  When  I  was  in  Damascus — "  with 
that  she  glides  into  a  description  of  her 
adventures  by  land  and  sea,  holding  us 
spell-bound.  She  had  received  the  name 
of  Hadjji  from  the  Turks  for  visiting 
all  the  holy  shrines  in  the  Orient,  and  one 
by  one  all  the  other  pupils  come  to  listen, 
in  turn  to  be  fascinated  by  the  strange 
visitor.  We  are  presently  joined  by  the 
Master,  himself,  who  leans,  enchanted, 
against  the  door  almost  forgetting  that 
he  is  to  lunch  with  Mr.  Worcester.  Hardly 
a  day  passes  that  he  does  not  ascend  the 
heights  of  Russian  Hill  to  lunch  with  his 
clerical  companion  on  nuts  and  cocoa 
and  subsequently  to  ascend  other  heights 
[24  ] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

whose  crests  are  eternally  unattainable. 
He  begs  Hadjji  to  wait  for  his  return,  but 
she  starts  away  in  the  middle  of  her  dis- 
course on  holy  sepulchres  leaving  us  with 
a  sense  of  lost  mental  treasure.  She 
turns  once,  to  invite  us  to  see  her  curios 
collected  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  and 
we  half-promise;  but  never  see  her  again. 
As  she  declared  her  inability  to  rest  more 
than  a  week  or  two  in  one  city,  we  con- 
clude that  she  is  abroad  again  circum- 
navigating the  globe. 

Now  we  hear  the  approach  of  two  men 
together.  Returning  to  the  Studio, 
Mr.  Keith  has  met  John  Muir,  naturalist, 
who  drops  in  to  look  at  Mr.  Keith's  last 
picture  of  the  Sierras.  The  two  are  great 
cronies  although  they  collide  at  certain 
points  of  their  intimacy  regarding  the 
relative  values  of  truth  and  beauty. 
Later  on,  mountain  masses,  themselves, 
will  cement  their  friendship:  when  they 
ascend  Mt.  Ranier  together.  Keith  will 
return  from  the  wonderful  trip  marvelling 
at  the  inexpressible  grandeur  of  snow 
scenery  in  glittering  contrast  to  Persian 
carpets  of  gorgeous  wild-flowers  bloom- 
ing to  the  very  limits  of  the  snow-line. 

Muir  delights  in  Keith's  mountains, 
but  incautiously  challenges  some  of  his 
geological  "formations."  This,  like  the 
Judge's  cravat  leads  to  argument — ex- 
tremely edifying  to  us  who  sit  with  open 
[25] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

ears  for  the  discussion.  The  ominous 
rumbling  in  the  caverns  of  their  minds 
explodes  in  short,  sharp  sentences.  There 
is  much  disdain  on  the  part  of  the  artist 
for  the  foot-rule  criticism  of  the  scientist. 
But  along  comes  Prof.  Davidson  of  the 
Geodetic  Survey,  his  fine  old  face  muffled 
in  the  habitual  woolen  scarf,  and  to  the  ; 
chagrin  of  Keith,  sides  with  the  scientific 
accuracy  of  Muir.  The  seemingly-endless 
discussion  is  closed  abruptly  by  the  arrival 
of  old  Schow  loaded  with  newly-stretched 
canvases.  The  other  two  men  leave  and 
Keith  is  still  gritting  his  teeth  over  rocky 
4  'formations' '  when  Dr.  Edward  Robeson 
Taylor  appears  with  a  relief-supply  of 
poetry.  Disregarding  the  mooted  strata 
he  quotes  soothingly  from  Rossetti.  He 
gazes  rapt  into  the  landscape  on  the 
easel  and,  touched  by  the  zephyrs  of 
inspiration  which  move  the  interlacing 
branches  of  saplings  in  the  mystic  hour 
of  gloaming,  he,  too,  composes:  in  the 
word-tones  of  the  poet. 

4  'Would  that  my  rhyme  could  run  as 
does  the  stream 

Which  on  thy  canvas  breaks  in  rap- 
turous song 

Where  Spring,  triumphant  bursts  from 
every  clod, 

Then  would  be  realized  my  vain  fond 
dream." 

[26] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

Or  perhaps  it  is  Ina  Coolbrith,  future 
poet  laureate  of  California  who  will  come 
presently  to  bathe  her  emotional  nature 
in  the  glowing  recesses  of  Keith's  forest 
interiors  and  emerging  will  interpret  her 
impressions  to  the  Master  in  words  of 
silvery  rhythm  which  will  renew  his  own 
spirit  for  the  work  of  his  hands. 

Or  Charles  Keeler  in  the  symbols  of  a 
poet  will  assure  Keith  that  he  has  heard 
the  warbling  of  the  nightingale  from  out 
the  leafy  vaults  of  those  same  forests. 

These  poets  may  be  followed  by  an- 
other type  of  humanity:  a  man  of  much 
flesh  and  blood:  a  splendid  type,  indeed: 
Dan  Burnham  visiting  here  from  Chi- 
cago. At  a  later  day  he  will  give  us  a  plan 
for  the  City  Beautiful;  gazing  from  the 
heights  of  Twin  Peaks  he  will  discern  in 
our  hills  and  valleys  the  Sleeping  Beauty: 
Neglected  possibility. 

Our  next  visitor  is  Theodore  Hittell — 
to  be  expected  any  day,  at  any  hour. 
Much  "joshing"  between  the  two  friends 
will  follow.  Mr.  Hittell  will  probably 
venture  a  criticism  —  in  consequence 
thereof  be  "squelched." 

"Make  the  grass  greener?"  cries  Keith 
in  assumed  indignation.  "What  do  you 
know  about  painting,  anyhow?  Because 
you've  written  five  volumes  on  the  His- 
tory of  California  you  think  you  can 
paint  grass  better  than  I  can!" 

[27] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

"I  don't!"  protests  the  other,  humbly, 
"but  I  guess  I've  seen  grass  all  my  life!" 

"Seen  grass!  Can  you  build  houses? 
You've  seen  houses  all  your  life!" 

Hittell  only  chuckles,  readjusts  his 
long,  familiar  overcoat  and  departs  to 
sterner  duties. 

Scarcely  has  the  excitement  of  all  these 
interviews  died  down  and  every  one  once 
more  become  absorbed  in  work  when — 
Crash!  Something  awful  has  happened. 

Old  lady  M  n's  easel  has  gone  through 

Shasta!  Her  long  gray  curls  shake  piti- 
fully from  side  to  side,  her  hands  wave 
up  and  down,  her  mouth  opens  and  shuts 
despairingly.  We  all  wait  one  event  in 
life:  the  approach  of  Keith.  This  is  his 
largest  picture,  which,  leaning  against 
the  wall,  covers  one  side  of  the  room.  He 
comes;  he  pauses  at  the  dividing-line. 
He  moves — toward  Shasta;  pokes  at  it; 

then,  slowly,  he  approaches  Mrs.  M  n 

who  refuses  to  open  her  eyes.  He  takes 
her  by  the  shoulders:  "I  can  patch  it !" 
he  gasps. 

4 'Noblest  words  man  ever  uttered!" 
she  solemnly  assures  us  afterward:  "I  can 
patch  it." 

Dear  old  lady  M  n!  She,  too,  has 

slipped  away  to  a  perception  of  the 
Whole;  yet,  while  still  on  this  plane  she 
made  remarkable  progress  in  her  art 
studies.  Over  sixty  years  of  age  when 
[28] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

she  came  for  her  first  lessons  she  advanced 
rapidly  within  the  space  of  a  few  weeks. 
Addicted  to  sunsets,  her  first  creations 
suggested  impending  conflagration;  later, 
however,  they  cooled  down  to  blue, 
green  and  violet:  the  danger  was  averted. 

She  will  always  remain  in  our  memory 
as  an  example  of  what  may  yet  be  ac- 
complished in  the  sunset  of  other  lives. 

In  and  out  flit  many  faces  familiar 
to  San  Francisco's  public.  Joseph  Red- 
ding, conceded  to  be  one  of  our  city's 
handsomest  men;  naturally  he  is  to  be 
scanned  with  interest  when  he  comes  to 
have  his  portrait  painted.  Little  will 
he  realize  the  close  scrutiny  to  which 
we  subject  him,  whilst  debating  and  dif- 
fering amongst  ourselves  whether  his 
nose  is  really  so  meritorious  or  his  eyes 
really  superior  to  men's  eyes  in  general! 

Dr.  Robert  Beverly  Cole  is  also  a 
'  'sitter"  accepting  sassafras  tea  at  our 
hands,  delighted  with  its  reminiscent 
flavor  which  recalls  his  boyhood  in  Vir- 
ginia. Mr.  Bartlett  of  the  Bulletin — a 
genial  old  gentleman  who  often  drops  in 
for  a  cup  of  tea,  in  return  entertaining  us 
with  humorous  anecdotes  of  his  own  ex- 
periences. 

Bruce  Porter  is  a  frequent  visitor:  he 
belongs  to  the  younger  set  of  art  lovers 
and  with  his  brothers   represents  the 
spiritual  element  in  culture  which  will 
[29] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

deliver  San  Francisco  from  mere  com- 
mercial aspiration. 

Now  comes  somebody  who  is  humorous 
without  knowing  it:  an  Irishman  with  a 
thatch  of  glowing  red  hair.  He  is  not 
seeking  the  beautiful:  simply  the  useful. 
All  he  wants  is  a  good  square  meal  and 
he  is  ready  to  work  for  it.  Mr.  Keith 
slips  a  quarter  into  his  hand  but  tells 
him  that  he  has  no  work  to  give  him. 
The  man  turns  away;  but  Bertha  cries 
out,  "Call  him  back,  Mr.  Keith!  Oh,  do 
call  him  back!  We  can  have  him  sit 
as  a  model !" 

Keith  hurries  after  the  retreating  fig- 
ure. "Say — you!"  he  shouts  down  the 
passage.   The  man  turns  round  again. 

"I  haven't  any  work  for  you,"  explains 
Keith,  "but  these  young  ladies  would  like 
you  to  sit  for  them." 

"Sit  for  them!" 

"Yes — they  say  they'd  like  to  paint 
you." 

"Pant  me!" 

"Yes — at  twenty-five*  cents  an  hour." 

The  fellow  has  returned  to  the  door- 
way and  surveys  us  dubiously.  "Pant 
me!"  with  a  forlorn  glance  at  his  clothes. 
"And  if  I  do  let  them  pant  me,  sor, 
how'd  I  git  th'  pant  aff  me?"  He  is  not 
reassured  by  the  gale  of  laughter  which 
follows  his  misgivings,  but  finally  strikes 
a  bargain  with  us;  departing,  he  passes 
[30] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER. 

another  model  who  advances  with  a  gay 
little  piping  of  Norma.  It  is  Pietro, 
a  professional  model  of  great  aplomb, 
and  those  of  us  who  are  trying  our  hand 
at  life  studies  greet  him  with  equal  en- 
thusiasm. Cherry-cheeked,  though  over 
ninety,  he  assures  me  that  were  he  only 
twenty  years  younger  he  would  make 
formal  declaration  for  my  hand.  Pre- 
served by  these  precious  twenty  years 
from  matrimonial  entanglement,  I  suffer 
him  to  pipe  forth  from  any  opera  the 
choicest  of  sentimental  avowals.  Alas — 
the  tragedy  of  his  musical  themes  will 
soon  invade  the  province  of  pictorial  art! 

I  have  miscalculated  the  proportions 
of  his  figure  on  the  small  piece  of  canvas 
in  which  I  purposed  to  encompass  him, 
and  having  established  his  head  too  low 
in  the  area,  I  impulsively  contract  his 
legs  under  it.  I  am  unconscious  of  this 
enormity  until  Mr.  Keith  comes  to  in- 
spect my  progress;  having  done  so,  he 
drops  into  a  chair  and  buries  his  face  in 
his  hands.  This  arouses  intense  curiosity 
— especially  in  Pietro.  His  eyes  flash 
with  indignation:  we  must  be  laughing  at 
him !  His  suspicions  are  confirmed  by  the 
ludicrous  spectacle  which  I  have  made  of 
him  and  he  dances  about  in  fury.  "  Paint 
it  out!  Paint  it  out!"  he  cries  frantically. 
"Nev-a  will  I  come  here  no  more!  Nev- 
a-,  neva-! 

[31] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

Keith  saves  the  situation.  Seizing  a 
big  brush  he  envelops  the  spindly  legs 
in  a  mantle,  lays  a  book  open  on  the 
cricket  knees  —  and  behold!  I  have 
painted  William  Cullen  Bryant.  (So 
every  one  believes  it  to  be  who  sees  the 
picture.)  Pietro's  wrath  is  somewhat 
appeased.  But  my  Italian  romance  is 
blighted;  he  never  pipes  Norma  to  me 
again:  whereby  womankind  may  profit. 
Should  anyone  wish  to  remove  a  suitor 
painlessly,  promptly,  effectually,  let  her 
but  paint  his  head  in  the  middle  of  a 
small  piece  of  canvas  and  contract  his 
legs  under  him! 

Yes — we  had  our  romances  in  the  Old 
Studio,  under  the  efficient  chaperonage  of 
William  Keith  who,  although  he  disliked 
the  role  exceedingly  was  always  equal 
to  an  emergency. 

Can  you  wonder  that  at  the  close  of  so 
interesting  a  day  as  the  typical  one  just 
described,  we  look  forward  eagerly  to  the 
morrow? 


[32] 


IV. 

The  frontispiece  of  this  volume  is  an 
excellent  photograph  of  Mr.  Keith  at  the 
time  when  we  were  under  his  tutelage. 
It  was  mutually  snapped  by  him  and 
myself.  The  camera  was  his  own,  for 
he  was  temporarily  enthralled  by  the 
use  and  divertissement  of  photography, 
testing  the  patience  of  every  friend  who 
unwarily  entered  the  Studio. 

One  day,  having  agreed  to  pose  for  his 
own  picture,  he  arranged  everything  so 
carefully  that  I  could  not  possibly  make 
any  mistake  in  the  manipulation  of  the 
camera.  It  was  my  first  attempt  at 
photography,  and  always  lacking  in  bold- 
ness when  I  approach  the  mysteries  of 
mechanical  contrivances,  I  delayed  so 
long  the  culminating  "touch,"  that  he 
lost  what  limited  patience  he  possessed, 
and  jumped  at  me  shouting:  "Go  it!" 
I  went  it — with  the  result  of  the  frontis- 
piece. It  must  have  been  I  who  "took" 
it,  for  certainly  there  was  no  one  else 
beside  me. 

At  this  period  he  was  still  painting  in 
broad,  free  strokes  which  repelled  all 
interference  of  detail;  reared  as  were  we 
of  the  Old  Studio,  in  this  untamed  life  of 
brush  and  pigment,  we  surpassed  even 
our  Chief,  himself,  in  unbridled  criticism 
of  veteran  painters. 

[33] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

It  marked  an  epoch  in  our  free  estate 
when  the  impending  visit  of  George 
Inness  was  announced.  He  would  share 
the  workroom  and  easel  of  Mr.  Keith 
where  we  might  watch  him  and  criticize 
him  to  our  hearts'  content.  The  excite- 
ment first  roused  by  the  announcement 
resolved  into  a  disquieting  quiet.  Did  we 
foresee  that  restraining  chains  of  progress 
were  forging  for  our  clanship?  That 
tribute  in  the  form  of  1 'finish' 1  would  be 
exacted  from  our  unfettered  Lord?  We 
began  making  such  preparations  as  the 
royal  visit  warranted;  we  picked  every 
stray  paint- tube  from  enclosing  floor- 
cracks,  and  sorted  into  more  or  less 
homeogeneous  piles  the  accumulations 
on  Mr.  Keith's  work  table:  crayons, 
photographs,  engravings :  articulated 
wooden  animals  of  a  prehistoric  age  in 
Keith's  career,  imbedded  in  strata  of 
envelopes  and  cigar  stumps.  Everything 
was  in  perfect  order  when  the  Dean  of 
Eastern  Landscape  painting  drew  near 
to  the  Dean  of  the  West. 

We  found  the  two  men  similar  in  many 
respects:  in  personal  appearance  but 
especially  in  their  moods.  They  were 
sociable  when  they  inclined  to  be  sociable 
and  uncommunicative  when  they  felt 
otherwise.  Both  were  of  Scottish  birth, 
both  professed  the  doctrines  of  Sweden- 
borg,  both  were  dominated  by  poetical 
[34] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

sentiment.  The  main  difference  in  their 
handling  of  the  landscape  was  based  on 
an  idea.  To  our  mind,  Inness  deliberately 
destroyed  the  first  freshness  of  bold 
strokes  by  constantly  retouching  the 
canvas.  As  soon  as  our  guest  left  at 
night,  we  would  hasten  to  inspect  his 
creation.  1  'Woolly !"  we  pronounced  it 
invariably.  "We  don't  like  his  work  half 
as  much  as  we  do  yours,  Mr.  Keith!" 

This  naturally  pleased  while  it  amused 
our  Chief.  Had  not  he,  himself,  taught  us 
to  fly  the  gerfalcon  of  original  criticism? 
But  he  looked  very  thoughtfully  on  the 
canvases  of  his  fellow-artist;  he  was 
taking  him  seriously.  The  two  were  dis- 
covering that  they  had  been  born  under 
the  same  star  of  the  artist's  firmament: 
that  it  was  guiding  them  over  moor  and 
mountain  of  human  endeavor  to  some 
new-born  Mystery  of  Life.  This  daily 
interchange  of  speculation  and  convic- 
tion naturally  interacted  in  the  work  of 
their  hands. 

Inness,  like  Keith,  preferred  to  express 
his  idea  fully,  at  once;  but,  convinced 
that  it  was  insufficient  to  have  one's  idea 
clear  only  to  oneself,  he  declared  that  it 
should  be  made  equally  lucid  to  others, 
even  though  in  so  doing — working  over 
many  parts  of  the  canvas — he  diminished 
the  crisp  brilliancy  and  strength  of  his 
work. 

[35] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

The  influence  of  Inness  on  Keith  was 
along  this  line  of  sacrifice,  and,  although 
in  alarm  for  the  integrity  of  Keith's  virile 
brush-work  we  implored  him  not  to  give 
heed  to  the  opinions  of  Inness,  from  that 
time  on  there  was  an  increased  "going 
over"  of  his  own  canvases. 

To  express  the  Mystery  of  Life  which 
brooded  over  his  spirit  dissatisfying  him 
with  the  objective  limitations  of  even 
brush  and  pigment,  he  resorted  to  strange 
expedients,  thereby  scandalizing  the 
Priests  of  Legitimate  Art.  He  was  as  a 
child  gamboling  about  their  sacred  edifice. 
Now — he  puffed  smoke  from  his  cigar 
upon  the  canvas;  now — he  turned  the 
picture  upside  down;  now — pressing  news- 
paper on  the  wet  paint  of  the  canvas,  he 
presently  removed  it,  enraptured  by  the 
wonderfully  soft  tone  resultant  on  the 
foreground.  Once  he  ordered  the  con- 
struction of  a  high  steel  mirror,  convinced 
that  in  its  polished  surface  he  would  dis- 
cover a  tonal  effect  which  haunted  but 
steadfastly  eluded  him. 

At  this  period  in  his  emotional  life,  the 
word  "subjective"  entered  common  par- 
lance, helping  to  make  clear  for  the  ordi- 
nary ken,  mysteries  of  our  inner  life 
hitherto  unexplained.  "I  have  found  the 
path!"  cried  Keith,  one  day;  "I've  found 
the  one  true  path  which  I  must  follow  in 
order  to  reach  my  highest  results!" 
[36] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

He  began  devouring  the  works  of  Hud- 
son and  Hyslop,  of  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  and 
others:  saturating  himself  in  "suggestion," 
" thought  transference/ ' — "phantasms  of 
the  living  and  the  dead."  Several  years 
later,  hearing  the  wonderful  vibrations 
of  a  great  brass  bowl  which  had  served  as 
gong  in  an  oriental  temple,  he  cried  again: 
"Eureka!  I  have  found  the  very  thing 
to  stimulate  my  color  sense! — to  set  my 
subjective  self  dum-thundering  /" 

You  will  have  observed  by  this  time 
that  we  of  the  Old  Studio  had  a  rich  and 
expressive  vocabulary  at  our  command 
not  incorporated  in  the  tomes  of  the 
Hierarchy. 

For  awhile  the  marvelous  waves  of 
sound  sufficed  our  artist  but — "the  Lethe 
of  Nature  won't  trance  him  again."  His 
soul  had  seen  the  Perfect  which  his  eye 
sought  in  vain;  and  when  the  glorious 
undulations  died  away  into  silence  the 
finite  ear  of  the  man  still  inclined  to 
something  beyond.  Had  he  been  fore- 
ordained Priest  of  the  Hierarchy  instead 
of  Prophet  no  doubt  he  would  have  gone 
the  way  of  cubist-futurist.  Following 
still  the  road  of  subjectivity  often  con- 
fused with  religious  or  spiritual,  he  might 
have  ended  in  that  cul-de-sac  peopled 
with  weird  phantasmagoria.  Allowing 
these  to  be  the  logical  developments  of 
subjective  law,  rather  are  they  the  sha- 
[37] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

dowing  forth  of  mere  molecular  agitation 
than  the  reflection  of  a  heavenly  vision. 
They  suggest  that  conscious  straining  of 
the  finite  will  for  expression,  exemplified 
in  Rodin's  statue  of  Balzac.  Inspiration 
is  accompanied  with  relaxation,  passivity 
to  a  Higher  Source— calm  faith  in  its  in- 
exhaustibility. 

Thanks  to  daily  commune  with  poet 
and  clergyman,  the  crisis  of  Keith's 
emotional  life  was  safely  passed  and  he 
quietly  followed  the  path  of  his  vocation 
as  it  opened  before  him,  convinced  that 
through  a  final  splendor  of  molten  gold, 
ruby  and  emerald,  it  would  merge  into 
the^  White  Light— Source  of  all  illumi- 
nation. 

This  idea  absorbed  the  failing  strength 
of  his  earthly  activity,  revealing  itself 
in  the  "Glory  of  the  Heavens,"  by  many 
considered  his  masterpiece. 


[38] 


V. 

Anyone  under  the  impression  that  the 
last  period  of  Keith's  work,  dating  from 
the  Earthquake  and  Fire,  signalizes  a 
deterioration  of  his  powers,  labors  under 
serious  misapprehension.  Confusion  arises 
from  the  conflict  between  his  impulsive 
work  and  secondary  consideration  of  the 
same.  Several  weeks  after  the  Fire  in 
which  he  lost  many  of  his  pictures, 
I  watched  him  paint  one  of  the  noblest 
landscapes  which  he  ever  executed:  mas- 
sive oak,  brilliant  blue  California  sky, 
luscious  green  grass.  My  exclamation  of 
delight  was  promptly  suppressed. 

11  Nothing  to  what  I  can  do,"  he  de- 
clared. "By  George! — But  Til  get  there 
yetr 

"You  don't  seem  to  mind  losing  your 
pictures  in  the  Fire  a  bit." 

"What  should  I  'mind'  about?"  Where 
do  pictures  really  come  from?  Open 
yourself  to  Inspiration — the  Source  I  Is 
there  any  end  to  that?  Pshaw!  I  don't 
always  stick  to  my  own  convictions!" 

A  little  later  I  saw  this  self-same  picture 
in  public  exhibition — changed!  Tones 
of  gold  and  brown  had  been  worked  into 
the  brilliant  hues — the  summer  idyll  was 
become  autumnal. 

This  tendency  to  veil  many  of  his  gem- 
studded  canvases  with  tints  of  autumn 
[39] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

was  induced  by  the  peculiar  epoch  of  his 
consciousness;  his  activity  in  the  world 
was  tonal  with  subdued  russet  and  gold 
of  harvest-time.  Though  honor  and 
wealth  had  come  to  him  he  scarcely 
missed  a  day  at  his  studio  in  San  Fran- 
cisco to  which  he  crossed  from  his  home 
in  Berkeley,  frequently  through  densest 
fog  and  heaviest  rain.  Next  to  this  spot 
he  preferred  his  own  ingleside  listening 
to  books  read  aloud  to  him  by  his  wife 
or  tweaking  the  ears  of  his  devoted  dogs. 
Married  twice,  he  had  two  children  by 
his  first  wife  who,  herself  with  a  charming 
gift  for  painting,  sympathized  most  tend- 
erly with  his  early  struggles  toward  the 
goal  of  art.  The  second  wife,  of  intellectual 
bias,  proved  a  fitting  complement  in  the 
latter  part  of  his  life;  brightening  the 
yet  more  trying  days  of  his  earthly 
pilgrimage  by  reading  aloud  to  him  and 
discussing  the  contents  of  choice  volumes 
from  his  well-stocked  library. 

It  was  sad  to  watch  the  decline  of  that 
once-powerful  physique,  but  William 
Keith  had  accomplished  his  part  of  the 
work  on  earth.  As  the  Hero  of  Letters, 
so  he  as  Hero  of  Painting  discerned  for 
himself  and  manifested  the  Divine  Idea 
of  this  world :  as  it  breathes  through  the 
landscape. 

In  the  autumn — rather  than  in  the 
winter — he  passed  beyond  the  vanishing 
[40] 


WILLIAM  KEITH  AS  PROPHET  PAINTER 

point  of  this  world's  perspective  and  no 
more  fitting  lines  can  be  inscribed  under 
his  last  canvas  than  these  of  Longfellow: 

O  what  a  glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
For  him,  who,  with  fervent  heart,  goes 
forth 

Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and 
looks 

On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well 
spent! 

For  him  the  wind,  ay  and  the  yellow 
leaves 

Shall  have  a  voice,  and  give  him  eloquent 
teachings; 

He  shall  so  hear  the  solemn  hymn  that 
Death 

Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go, 
To  his  long  resting  place  without  a  tear. 


[41] 


HERE  ENDS  THE  MONOGRAPH  "WILLIAM  KEITH 
AS  PROPHET  PAINTER"  BY  EMILY  P.  B.  HAY. 
PUBLISHED  BY  PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
AND  SEEN  THROUGH  THEIR  TOMOYE  PRESS 
UNDER  THE  TYPOGRAPHICAL  DIRECTION  OF 
HERMAN  A.  FUNKE,  IN  THE  CITY  OF  SAN  FRAN- 
CISCO, DURING  THE  MONTH  OF  APRIL,  NINE- 
TEEN HUNDRED  AND  SIXTEEN. 


